Elementary
by raiaR6
Summary: Two years after "the Fall" and John's getting married to the lovely Mary. But things begin to happen. John finds letters and curious objects in Sherlock's old things on a cleaning day. If Sherlock were to come back, how would he fit into John's life with wife by his friend's side? Would he even come back? And the most thought-provoking question: What's Sherlock been up to?
1. Chapter 1

**My first _Sherlock _fanfic! I had just recently began watching the series, and I'm already in dire need of the next season! But Sherlock's "death". Sort of a mystery surrounding it, yes? **

**Two years later. John's getting married. If Sherlock were to come back, how would be fit in John's life with a wife by his side? Would he even come back? **

**Read and review please :) I made this first bit short just to stir up some emotions revolving around "the Fall".**

**Oh, and yeah, I don't own a thing besides the ideas. Though I wish I owned Benedict Cumberbatch... **

* * *

Ella Thompson was stunned. Baffled, to say the least. This? Him? Here? _Now_? She hadn't watched the news in ages. Whatever he wanted to speak about, it looked as if it had been boiling in his stomach for months on end.

Two years, to be exact. Two years and three months, to be on pinpoint. But John Watson knew better. He knew that it had been two years, three months, and six days.

The death of his best friend. Oh, was that a large one. It melted his conscious thoughts whenever it rose to the surface. He tried not to think about it, he really did. But it had just been recent that he was forced to dig through boxes upon boxes in his friend's old room. Most of it had been put into storage, but Mrs. Hudson didn't have the heart to take everything.

Besides, most of things in that flat _were _Sherlock's.

"John?" Ella, the less than helpful therapist, asked rather loudly. John blinked several times, trying to focus his vision as his eyes wandered towards the woman in the plush chair. She had a light smile etched across her face.

_Why is she smiling? _

"I came to talk about Sherlock." He muttered, knotting his hands together on his lap as he cleared his throat. He didn't want to say anymore. Ella had clearly seen the videos about _the fall_ since John's last visit. She just didn't expect him to come back after so long to speak about it. She was wrong about the news in a few ways. Yes, she knew about the fall off the hospital's roof, but that hadn't been until John came to speak about it. She stayed away from tabloids and news reports. They didn't help fill any desires of hers, so it was merely a pass time she didn't _have _time for.

Ella scrunched up her nose and scribbled something on her notepad. "All right," she said simply, waiting for him to continue. By now she knew John wasn't meant to be pushed into saying what he felt, he'd say it in his own time.

"I'm getting married."

"How's that about Sherlock, then?" Ella questioned, lifting a thoughtful eyebrow at her client. He was rubbing his thumbs together.

"He won't be there."


	2. Chapter 2

221B Baker Street.

It had undergone drastic changes that were, of course, first approved by the landlady herself. But she had lazily nodded her head, mumbling something about renting a storage unit before rushing off to busy her mind with another pointless hour of cleaning.

That left John alone in the rather bland flat. The flower wallpaper had been discarded of, replaced with Mrs. Hudson's second choice: maroon.

The color often reminded him so much of the blood on the sidewalk, pouring out of Sherlock's head. It'd pull him so far into his own mind he didn't ever think there was a way back. The color would suffocate him.

Mary had covered it in photos. It helped John, whether he'd admit to it or not. He never liked coming home and seeing the place empty, then look up and be reminded of why.

The kitchen no longer contained the chaotic experiments. The fridge was full of food and hadn't held one of the morgue's heads in quite some time. The one thing he missed the most out of Sherlock's things was the skull. Mrs. Hudson had taken it to her flat, giving it the privilege of sitting on top of the television.

Running a finger across the table top, John racked his brain for any memory of the large gash in the counter. They had gotten all new furniture just two days ago; there couldn't possibly be marks on them now. But this particular scratch looked oddly familiar.

Clearing his throat, and attempting to clear his head, he proceeded to the couch. Mary had set up a nice resting place there when she knew his mental health was suffering. He'd rest and stay down for days. But this time, he just sat, his eyes locked onto the place the skull once was.

That was, until a single ring broke his gaze. He blinked, looking around the room before hearing someone charge up the stairs. Someone was coming and it wasn't Mary, she didn't pound her feet down that heavily.

A girl stood patiently in the doorway, her bright blue eyes sharp and glowing under the harsh lighting. She didn't waver from her position, even as John cautiously approached her. Dark red hair fell in curls to the small of her back, tied neatly together with a thin ribbon.

"John Watson?" She seemed out of breath, but didn't show it in her face. She was calm and aware of her surroundings. He nodded curtly. "I've been sent to pick up a few things."

But John wasn't hearing any of it; he was narrowing his vision on the rest of her facial structure. The cheekbones, the lips… "Sorry, but do I know you?" John asked, ideas in his head nearly becoming unbearable. He knew he recognized her. He knew her from somewhere…

"I don't know you, so I'm assuming you don't know me." This girl was good at her comebacks, but with every word, sarcasm dripped. She had a tone to her voice that made John feel as if she knew something he didn't. "Mr. Watson, I really don't have time to have a chat. I'll need," she paused, looking down at a scratch paper in her palm, "I'll be needing a violin and a skull." She nodded, though it was slow and thoughtful. She clearly didn't understand the list.

But John did. And suddenly, he was more than outraged. Blood poured into his cheeks, flushing his skin as he glanced behind the girl's shoulder. "Who sent you?"

"A friend." That was all he expected to get; she was nice enough to give him that detail. She was short and to the point. All business.

"I don't have the things you want."

The girl frowned, her heel clicking against the ground. Red curls fell into her face as she bit her lip. She didn't want to go back empty handed. She didn't want to see that disappointed look fall across that man's face again. She _couldn't_. "Can you get them?" She kept her voice soft, not wanting to push John over his limit. He was already nearing it.

John curled his hands at his sides, gulping hard on his own spit as he stepped back further into his flat. He knew where the violin was, that was simple. He had stored it in Sherlock's room several days after his death. And the skull was with Mrs. Hudson. He just didn't want _her _to know.

"You'll need to be leaving." John said after a moment of silence. The girl smiled unsurely, her eyes wandering over John before turning on her heels.

A simple "fine" was all John got in return as he heard the door down the steps swing open, then slam shut.

* * *

Hours had passed waiting for Mary to return from work. John sat unbalanced on the arm rest of the leather chair. He had the violin placed at his feet. Mary would surely be alarmed by the sight once she entered the flat, but he didn't care. He just wanted someone to play the damn thing. He couldn't stand the silence.

Perhaps he should have given it to the girl. She seemed to think it was more important for her to have than him.

On the couch cushion sat, in a mess, several papers of music. They had all been composed by Sherlock during hard cases. He claimed it helped him think, and others called it annoying, but John liked it. It soothed his nerves, and always put Mrs. Hudson in the best of moods. She loved hearing the melodies at one in the morning, even if she refused to admit it.

Sherlock had been like her son.

Biting his thumb nail, John stared at the doorway. _Mary should be coming through. Mary should know what to do. She should-_

"John?" The voice was soft and gentle. _Mary. _

"In here," he called back, dropping his hands as he pushed the sheets out of the way to collapse into the chair. The violin fell on its side, but he ignored it.

Mary wandered in, Mrs. Hudson at her side with groceries in hand. "Mrs. Hudson was gracious enough to pick us up some supplies. You haven't been out to the market in ages, she thought it was about time to get a few things." Her voice was guarded, practically nervous. She didn't want to upset John. He hated it.

Mrs. Hudson separated from Mary to drop the bags onto the table. She noticed the scratch immediately. "John, I thought you got rid of the old table." She traced the mark with her pinkie, shaking her head disappointingly. Mary moving in and the upcoming wedding was supposed to be a fresh start for the both of them. A table with chemical splotches and chunks missing was only just a reminder.

"We did," Mary and John replied in union. But something clicked enough in John's head to have him flying from his seat. He was at Mrs. Hudson's side in seconds. "Where's the mark from?"

She seemed hesitant to tell him, mainly due to the woman behind him shaking her head frantically. Memories weren't good for John, especially of his deceased best friend. It plagued his thoughts for days to come.

"Sherlock... Sherlock had these men over when you weren't there. He'd get into all sorts of trouble, and someone would send these _fighters _over to deal with him. Made all sorts of noises, they did. I'd come up after and the whole place would be broken." Mrs. Hudson laughed, though it was shaky and distant. "And Sherlock would just be sitting there, reading a novel like nothing happened..."


	3. Chapter 3

_The violin could be heard from the street. Sherlock was thinking. He would pause every few seconds to scribble several notes down, and then continued from the point of breakage. He blocked out everything else, though it was impossible to completely ignore John's constant throat clearing from his position on the couch. _

_Eventually, on the nineteenth throat clear, Sherlock turned on him. "How much longer will you be doing that?" _

_John lifted his head from his paper, rubbing his eyes as he blinked in surprise. "Sorry? I've got a cold. It's one in the morning, Sherlock. Can't you just stop playing?" He knew saying that was a lost cause. Sherlock had already turned away from him. "Sherlock," he said over the playing violin. The song was calming, but he knew Sherlock had already finished composing it an hour ago. He had just continued writing down small lines of thoughts on the composition paper. Hearing the same song play over and over again was also getting under his skin. "Sherlock!" _

_Sherlock played the first several notes, facing the window curiously. "John," he replied casually. It frustrated John more than it should have. He dropped the paper on the cushion beside him and stood up. On his way to the door, he snatched his coat. That had captured Sherlock's attention. He had stopped playing to watch John start to leave. "Where are you going?" _

"_Out. I need air." _

"_It's one in the morning." Sherlock proclaimed as if it had been some vital piece of information that could possibly effect what John did next. _

_John nodded, "Exactly, Sherlock." He muttered and proceeded down the steps and out the door. He slipped passed Mrs. Hudson as she paused on the steps. She didn't say a word, she knew the routine. A cup of tea was balanced in her hand, a small plate of biscuits in the other. "Get him to eat?" He called up softly to her once he reached the door. She nodded with determination settling in her eyes. Words didn't need to be said, she'd do whatever necessary to get Sherlock in proper health. _

_When she walked through the doorway to 221B, Mrs. Hudson found Sherlock sitting on the center couch cushion, exactly where John had been. He was staring at the window he had previously been in front of. _

"_No," he mumbled, narrowing his eyes for a brief moment as Mrs. Hudson frowned. _

"_I haven't said a thing." She replied, setting the meal down on the table as Sherlock glanced at her. _

_His eyes wandered over the food and tea. "You want me to eat." He said curtly, carelessly grimacing at the realization that Mrs. Hudson wasn't about to go away. He knocked John's papers off the couch and stretched out, his eyes studying the ceiling. _

"_What's this then? Another mark on my furniture! Sherlock-" _

_Sherlock pushed his hands together as if he were about to pray, then placed them under his nose and over his lips. He shut his eyes. "Mrs. Hudson, I'm busy. Come back tomorrow. Leave something reheatable on the counter for John. Don't want to deal with him talking." _

"_It's already Tuesday; I'd be coming back Wednesday with your logic." She seemed to mentally pause, frowning down at the tea she had prepared and the biscuits waiting to be devoured. "And I'm not your housekeeper." _

_Sharply, Sherlock inhaled, turning his head to the side to gaze lazily into the kitchen. "Mrs. Hudson," he repeated with more urgency than before. "I need to think. In silence. I need to think in silence." _

_And after several seconds of peace, with not one word uttered by Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson, the air began to feel heavy. Sherlock leaped from the couch, throwing his scarf around his neck and his jacket over his shoulders. _

"_Where're you going?" Mrs. Hudson asked from the kitchen as she hovered between setting her cup down and picking up a biscuit. _

"_The Jaria Diamond, Mrs. Hudson. I sent them a message, then John took my card. I want it back." _

"_It's thirty minutes to two in the morning!" Mrs. Hudson protested, setting the biscuit back sternly to practically chase after the man. _

_Sherlock moved faster than her. He was already leaping down the steps. "Yes, and John's got my card."_

_And even in Sherlock's urgency and quick replies, Mrs. Hudson knew that Sherlock had a sliver of patience in waiting for the card. He just wanted to find John. _


End file.
